


Bench

by fraisemilk



Series: Onomatopoeia [6]
Category: Gintama
Genre: Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5209262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraisemilk/pseuds/fraisemilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of jumpy heartbeats and old rusty benches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bench

          On the periphery of the City, on the edge of a small wood in a blue-shadowed public garden, a bench lies waiting. Its humid gnarly figure, half hidden by brown dead leaves, had not seen the sun since the last Winter. Now, the autumnal cold has given back its sight, only obstructed by the long bony branches of three large oaks. Two sparrows have taken the habit of picking its already worn flesh in the first few hours of the day. Under the Sun’s reluctant gaze, morning dew infiltrates the wood. The bench does not vacillate. It lies there on the edge – relentless. Its green paint has washed away; its rectangular, once symmetrical shape has disappeared; the nails stuck in its body have rusted. Only the bench remains. And if, in the spells of quietness that sometimes fall on the place, heavy yet so rare – birds bubbling flies chatting leaves whispering –, if one pays attention to the bench, it might take the air that can only be found in abandoned buildings; and its quiet insistence that growls, eerie, this whispered silence: I am the guardian of a secret. I am the keeper of a secret.

(And lower still, it breathes: I am waiting for –)

 

* * *

 

 

Your heartbeat is a betrayer. Corrupted – polluted – a pulse of clouds and coughing chimneys. At first you disregard its insistent pleading. Sleeping on cardboard boxes has harshened your view on life – that’s what you like to think – that’s why you ignore your feelings so easily, maybe.

Sore muscles and achy joints, the old not-so-old man wanders in the streets like he wanders in life. No time for livid heartbeats. No time for blushing fits. You walk and walk and walk. Realize there is no point. Stop. Sit on a bench somewhere remote, alone. Your steps have led you far from the heart of the city – away in this strange place – in a world that is finally, finally quiet. The silence helps you concentrate on recent memories. You used to love building sand castles when you were little – how unpleasant assembling your thoughts is, now– how easy. Some glue and colored tape – a few pins for the most reluctant images: two eyes, white white white, a cheek and the green shadow spreading lazily on it – and a mouth, too, do not forget it. Open, closed, the curve of a mouth, sly and inviting. Maybe not sly – most probably not inviting. How hard it is to stop one’s thoughts from happening.

Sore muscles and achy joints, hoary useless homeless meaningless old man. You meet him again two days after your thoughtful meditation on the bench. The sight of him is unbearable. His lazy mouth is unbearable. It’s the only thing you can see, it’s the only things you can hear, it’s the only thing you can feel, and, and – there goes your heartbeat.

When you are back on the bench, the same old rotten bench, it’s the turn of your lungs to betray you. Gasps, sobbing shivering breaths, maybe have you run through the red-yellow-brown gardens without realizing it, maybe is it the only reason your lungs have turned into a mass of wheezing tremors…? There is a lump in your throat, a knot in your stomach. Your heartbeat throbs and jumps angrily. Hunger, too, is looming.

You wake up on the bench – cold, damp mornings of autumn are the homeless man’s wrench. You’ve been useless, homeless, _meaningless_ enough to know that. You know you shouldn’t have slept on the bench like that. Cold settles easily in a sad man’s bones. But you look at the delicate curves traced in the wood of the bench, you touch the humid wood under you, and feel better again. The bench does not sway.

Stone-headed destiny arranges a third meeting. Reluctant, you respond with a vague gesture to the happy hello, how are you feeling old man, you look more useless to society than usual. He’s probing, he knows something is up. He knows, maybe, that the useless man is avoiding to look at his mouth. He jokes, teases you. God damnit. 

His eyes seem unusually bright. His cheeks are red – it is cold today. He smiles, and his smile is a smirk that shows white teeth, and he says “Let’s talk.” You walk. You sit on a bench. It’s the same, rotten bench as the past few days. Things keep repeating themselves. Your heart keeps beating too quickly, jumping, aching; overjoyed rhythm. You’re not an idiot – you understand it’s trying to tell you something - Life is trying to tell you something. You sigh. You both stay silent. You look up – your gaze follows the thin line of pale clouds – the fine gold of the horizon – the bony arms poplars and oaks stretch out towards the sky –the man’s face, then, lazy pink-cheeked, clever mouth curved into a knowing smile. He knows.

The old useless man’s heart skips a beat or two, and finally the realization comes to you – here on the bench, half your sight obstructed by scrawny branches and blue-eyed sunshine –, and the realization pulls another sigh out of your chest.

You do not talk at all. Minutes turn into an hour, then two. Finally, Gintoki gets up, turns towards you, and teases you a last time. You do not answer back – the other walks away. Still sitting on the bench, you keep quiet, and marvel at the retreating back of the man you fell in love with. How odd it is. How oddly refreshing.

When it starts to get dark, you get up, and feel as if another weight has been lifted off your shoulders. You will not come back here.

The bench stays – it does not sway. Its green paint has washed away; its rectangular, once symmetrical shape has disappeared; the nails stuck in its body have rusted. In the rare spell of quietness, its growling whispers have died away.

**Author's Note:**

> :^) 
> 
> I'm putting this in the Onomatopoeia series even if it's not gen.
> 
> Kudos and comments are lovely!


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